


The Morning After

by LibertineQuarantine (elyndys), Missoneminute



Category: The Libertines
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-19
Updated: 2020-03-19
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:20:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23213917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elyndys/pseuds/LibertineQuarantine, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Missoneminute/pseuds/Missoneminute
Summary: Written by a friend for the Tumblr prompt "A bittersweet moment of them waking up together and thinking of what could have been before quietly slipping away without saying a word but each being slightly heartbroken thinking the other would rather forget it happened".
Relationships: Carl Barat/Pete Doherty
Comments: 4
Kudos: 47
Collections: Peter and Carl fics to lift our spirits during self-isolation





	The Morning After

Peter woke before Carl did, and it took him a long and bewildering moment to register the reality of the situation. Carl was snoring away, fitfully sleeping on his side, that lovely bare back an inch from Peter’s stripped chest. 

It was afternoon, the light already a dim orange through the crack in the drapes. Nothing unusual so far - they often collapsed drunkenly together side by side after making a ruckus in the pubs and clubs. Other times they lay down together for a little midday nap. And sometimes for a late night cuddle before they parted, rolling over to either side of the bed and drifting off to sleep. 

Nothing unusual, but for the deliciously forbidden heat under the sheets between them, unclothed bodies giving off a glow of tell-tale warmth. Nothing unusual, but for the onslaught of memories Peter had of the night before. 

It was a jumble already - hands and skin and mouths and friction, clipped sighs and intimate gasps unleashed into the air above parted lips and gritted teeth, the kind of gasps that stick in the mind and become stabs of thrill when recalled. 

Even those flashes of thought made Peter’s body stir with an alarming excitement. His heart began pounding - he felt immediately aware of it, as if it was louder than Carl’s small snores. Christ, what had they done. 

Now he was frozen still in place, trying to decide if he should quietly rise and get dressed and act like nothing had happened, or should he move closer, cuddle up against Carl’s warm back and invite more? Would that even be welcome? 

He had to decide quickly because Carl was most definitely stirring now, moving gently into wakefulness, head lolling against the pillow, hair falling across his cheek, then a little groan, a little sigh, his legs unfurling from bended knees under the sheets. All the regular signs of a man waking in the late afternoon after a rather large drinking session and... all sorts of things. 

Then it changed. Carl’s loose-limbed journey into the day stopped mid stretch, he too froze, and Peter, panicky and wide-eyed, watched him come to all the same realisations he had himself minutes before. The pause was excruciating. 

Carl’s own jumbled memories were less thrilling and overall more terrifying. It’s not that he hadn’t imagined this very scenario. In his most private moments, inside the cocooned safety of his own mind, he’d played it out like a script he knew very, very well. There was, for that reason, a soothing sense of achievement tied into the terror. But he’d never planned for after the thing, though. Who plans consequences? Neither he nor Peter did anyway. 

Carl churned through the expected roster of thoughts: quick run through of the various acts of filth and pleasure they’d giggled and moaned through enacting the night before, accompanied by a gust of excitement and a dangerous stirring in the loins. And now what? Say nothing and get dressed? He could slip off to the bathroom, that’s a good excuse, then play it by ear? Or should he give Peter a cuddle? There would be a cuddle if it was a girl, a random one night stand, most of the time anyway. Some decorum was required surely. 

Did Peter even want a cuddle after this? Deep inside Carl was sure that he would. In fact, he was also fairly sure that if he treated Peter with the dismissive approach he’d enact upon an ill-advised one night stand, Peter would sook. 

Fine, if he’s awake he can have a cuddle, if he’s not, off to the loo and never shall we speak of it, Carl decided. 

Carl’s whole decision making process took barely a minute but Peter was near to hyperventilating by the end of it. He figured he should signal that he’s awake, since Carl clearly was, so he rather weirdly decided to clear his throat in an immensely performative fashion that made Carl raise an eyebrow and stifle a laugh. It was awfully awkward, but fairly sweet, he had to admit. 

Carl went for plan A - he turned over abruptly and was ready to collect Peter in his arms for a gentlemanly morning-after embrace but instead found himself staring in the immensely alarmed face of Peter, who’d slid as far away from Carl as he could go without falling off the bed in the same amount of time it took Carl to turn over. 

Carl erupted in a perplexed and slightly irritated expression. Peter realised his mistake at once. He’d read the move as aggressive, or maybe he was just startled, but he understood in a split second he’d just recoiled from a cuddle. What. An. Idiot. 

“I thought... you were going to smack me or something” he mumbled, not at all able to hide his embarrassment. Carl’s eyebrow went up. Then he laughed, but forcibly. “Was going to give you a hug,” Carl said in a clipped tone. Peter stared at him for a moment, investigating. “Do you still want to?” he asked Carl hopefully. “Go on,” Carl replied, and sidled in to meet Peter halfway. 

They slid their arms around one another, Peter nuzzled his face in the crook of Carl’s neck, and they lay there a moment. It was not going well. The hug itself was a little tense. Peter languished in it limply, though he had to stop himself thinking about how much he’d like to kiss the neck resting under his chin. Could he? Probably not, he decided.

Carl meanwhile was mulling over the fact that there was nothing but a scrunched sheet between their entirely naked bodies and that was the only thing keeping their bits from rubbing up against one another, which they almost were as it was. Though he couldn’t decide if that idea was embarrassing or tantalising or both. 

The hug went on stiffly for a minute or two. Neither of them knew when to let go. It had transcended from a hug to a cuddle in terms of time spent embracing, but cuddling derived a certain pleasurable comfort that was sorely missing here. Oh god, Carl thought, this is bloody terrible. 

They’d always cuddled so easily and so often, but this morning was an anomaly. Right time to let go, Carl decided, and began to jimmy himself loose. The moment he did, Peter felt a tugging sense of grief. He’d distantly hoped they might work up the courage to have a wee kiss, or maybe even... anyway just something else, something more. 

The thought evaporated as Carl dislodged his arms, gently but surely, drew away and sat up in bed, rubbing his eyes and mussing his hair as he would any morning he rose. “Do you want a cuppa tea?” He asked without looking at Peter, then he was leaning over the edge of the bed, skinny back straining, before he was up again with cigarettes and a lighter. 

“Yeah,” Peter said, not trying to hide his sombre tone. Peter felt so weirdly sad. He couldn’t tell if everything was fine or if he was in some way being rejected. Carl sensed it, too, that exact set of emotions, emanating from Peter, boring into his skull, but Carl wasn’t sure which of the two it was either. 

Carl slid down back beside Peter then, and offered him a cigarette. Peter took the lit one out of Carl’s mouth instead, and dragged on it. He blew the smoke over his head and handed it back. “Where’s this tea?” Peter teased softly. Carl smiled widely at him. He reached out and slid a few messy tendrils of Peter’s hair out of his face. Peter’s heart jumped at the touch, and Carl’s heart jumped at the look that arose in Peter’s eyes. The sheer affection. Two huge brown pools of it, shaking surely but almost imperceptibly as if from a deeply-buried, internal earthquake. 

The way Carl was looking back at him, the knowing glare, the consumption of this rawness, the feast of it on offer - Peter felt very exposed all of a sudden, and he didn’t want to feel that way. A wall of defensiveness smashed its way upwards and impulsively, he wanted this over. 

“Go make the tea,” Peter whined, and snatched Carl’s cigarette back out of his mouth. Carl’s brow furrowed. He was often quick to anger and in an instant - despite the circumstances, despite the intimacy, despite the affection on offer - he was irritated. “You can make it yourself for that,” he snapped, and he was getting up then, sliding onto the edge of the bed shoving his pants and jeans back on. 

Peter smoked silently, feeling defensive, feeling betrayed, but mostly by his own behaviour. That wasn’t what he wanted to do. He wanted to reach out, even now, and grab Carl by the head, wrestle him into a kiss, throw off the covers, pull Carl’s body down on top of his and start the whole night over, and over and over. 

Carl stood up, nostrils flaring, angry at himself for thinking a night like that would change anything. Had he thought it would? He supposed he did. How he didn’t know, but at the very least he expected it to manifest in warmth and closeness, a new secret in a world that was only theirs. Instead Peter was just being a prick, as always, Carl raged to himself. 

As Carl went to step out the door, Peter felt his chest seize up and his heart fall through it and he couldn’t leave it like this, he just couldn’t. “Biggles?” he said, so immensely softly. Carl stopped in his tracks. That was a peace offering and he knew it. “Hmm?” Carl answered, turning partway back to Peter. “Can we please have tea? It’s so cold” he complained gently, though it wasn’t really. Carl sighed but he smiled too. “Yes Peter we’ll have tea,” he said, and Peter smiled so fondly it looked like a gloat. 

Carl was out in the hall when he called back, “Wait there and I’ll bring it up”. 

Peter sat patiently smoking and awaiting his Earl Grey, while Carl fussed about downstairs making it. Neither knew what the other was thinking, for once, nor what would happen next. But the day finally felt normal. It didn’t seem so strange how they’d woken up, or what they’d woken up from. It was starting to feel, for both of them, like just another day.


End file.
